“I wasn’t going to tell you that,” I said, and then before I could stop myself, I grumbled, “Must be the concussion.”
“The what?”
I was really digging myself into a hole here.
I bit my lip. “I’ll admit, yesterday wasn’t the most ideal situation, but it has nothing to do with my ability to take care of myself.”
“What are you talking about?”
I sighed, realizing I would have to tell him the truth because I’d never been a good liar, and there wasn’t a chance he’d buy the elaborate tale my brain was thinking up right now. It involved a bus and a kitten and a heroic sense of self.
“I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to tell my papa. I don’t want to worry him.”
“I promise,” he grated.
“Well, if you want me to put it frankly . . . I was sort of attacked, and maybe almost murdered.”
Silence.
“But don’t worry. Apparently, the man had a phobia of star necklaces, and I got away.” I pushed a dress on the rack aside.
A colorful Russian curse. “Where are you?”
“I’m shopping.”
I wasn’t going to tell him about my plans tonight. I knew how well it would be received—at least by my papa once Ivan snitched on me. Ivan never cared about who I went out with. His indifference stomped on my first crush and fantasy—created by Ms. Marta’s dirty books I snuck away with when she wasn’t looking—of a white knight on a steed who’d behead other men just for looking at me. Though, in that fantasyland, blood didn’t squirt in the air like a fountain because blood simply didn’t exist.
My expectations were unrealistic, a little gruesome, and a lot illegal. But a girl could dream.
“Shopping?” He sounded confused.
“Yes?”
“You were attacked, and then you got up and went shopping.”
“What would you like me to do? Cry myself to sleep?”
Maybe I should be traumatized, but somehow, I still only felt irritated at the situation. I hoped Scarface was having a shitty day.
“Mila . . . I want you to lo
ok around.” A foreboding edge crept into his voice. “Is anyone watching you?”
I froze, the hair on the back of my neck rising. “What? Why would someone be watching me?”
“Just do it. And do not make it obvious.”
A chill crawling up my spine, I discreetly glanced around the store, from a couple of women talking at the front counter, to a few others trying on accessories and perusing clothing racks. They were looking at me here and there, though only like I was a tourist who didn’t blend in. I stared out the front window but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
“Did you know my mother was famous here?” I asked. Maybe she had a Charles Manson-like group of fans?
He sighed.
“You did, didn’t you?” I accused. “Why wouldn’t you tell me something like that?”
“Because you would have gone digging where you do not belong.”
“Don’t belong? She was my mother!”